Torn Sails: A Tale of a Welsh Village

by Allen Raine

A strong wooden bridge with an iron rail spanned the narrow river, but was seldom used except in winter, a few broad stepping-stones making a more natural mode of communication between the two sides of the valley.

There was nothing like a street in Mwntseison, a rocky, stony road alone passing through it down to the shore, in an independent sort of way, as if disclaiming any connection with the cottages following its course, and, where possible, rather clinging to its sides. Most of the houses were straw thatched; a few had slated roofs, and they looked awkward and bare in their uncongenial attire. The fierce storms, however, which rushed up that narrow cwm in the winter months soon softened any look of rawness which clung to such an innovation as a slate roof!

At the end of the village nearest the sea, and not far from the top of the cliff, stood a large, wooden building, which seemed to attract much of the energy and interest of the place, for in and out of its wide-open doors there was always somebody passing. Within its boarded walls was carried on the thriving business of sail-making, which gave employment and comfort to almost every household in the village. Hard by, in a cleft of the great hillside, stood the house of the master, Hugh Morgan, "Mishteer," as he was called, for he was the owner of more than half of Mwntseison.

In Wales the landlord is still called "Master," and about the term hangs, in spite of modern and radical suggestions, a flavour of the old affection which once existed between landlord and tenant.

There was nothing in the house to distinguish it from the other cottages, except that it was a little larger, and moreover boasted of a second floor, over the two windows of which the brown thatch curved its comfortable mantle.

Its front was well sheltered from the sea wind by a bank of the cliff, covered with sea pinks and yellow trefoil. The sun shone full upon its white-washed walls, and in the "cwrt," or front garden, grew two splendid bushes of hydrangia, the pride of the village.

Inside, in the spacious old "pen-isha," or living-room, the brown rafters hung low in the dim light, for the window was small, and deeply set in the thick walls. The chimney was of the old-fashioned sort, known as "lwfwr," and encircled within its wattled sides a large portion of the kitchen. Under its shade there was room for the small round table, the settle, and the cosy bee-hive or lip chair. Along the front of its bulging brow ran a shelf, ranged upon which stood various articles of pewter, copper, and brass, glittering with all the brilliancy that Madlen, the maid's, strong arm could give them. She was proud of her long service under the Mishteer, of the pre-eminence which he held over the rest of the villagers; she was proud of her well-scrubbed tables and chairs, and her invariably clean and cheerful hearth; but above all things, she was proud of that shelf with its shining company of "household gods." Indeed, some of the articles ranged upon it would have roused the enthusiasm of a modern collector of curios. The quaint, old brass bowl, with its curious inscription, still faintly visible in spite of Madlen's vigorous rubbing, a rugged old flagon of pewter, bearing the same inscription, not to speak of the quaintly-shaped copper pans, and a regiment of tall, brass candlesticks. When questioned as to the manner in which he had become possessed of such a goodly array, Hugh Morgan was wont to say carelessly, "Oh! I only know they were my grandmother's, and I have heard her say they were her grandmother's." He did not add, as he might have done, that she had also told him that in long past days, the eldest son of the family was always christened from that bowl, for he rather despised and disliked any allusion to the old tradition afloat in the village that his forefathers belonged to a different class from that in which he now lived.

On the evening on which my story opens he had just come home to his tea. The big doors of the sail-shed had been closed, the busy workmen and women had separated and sauntered away, for nobody hurried at Mwntseison. There was time for everything, and Ivor Parry—Hugh Morgan's manager—had locked the door and put the key in his pocket, with the comfortable feeling, so unfamiliar to dwellers in towns, that he not only had plenty of work to fill up his time, but also plenty of time for his work. He was tall and manly looking, ruddy featured and blue-eyed, his broad forehead surmounted by thick waves of light brown hair. It was a pleasant face to look upon, and one which inspired confidence.

When as a boy of twelve he had entered upon his work in the sail-shed, the Mishteer had been his ideal of all that was manly and strong, and he had constituted himself not only his willing servant, but his almost constant personal attendant. The Mishteer smiled at first, but gradually learnt to value the lad's attachment; and, as the years went on, they became fast friends, in spite of the difference in their ages. Although their friendship was never marked by any condescension in Hugh's manner, it was always felt by Ivor to be a privilege as well as an honour, and this feeling had grown with his growth, and increased with every year of personal intercourse with his employer. Some such thoughts as these filled his mind to-night as he traversed the bit of green sward lying between the shed and the Mishteer's house.

Having hung the key on its usual nail near the door, he peeped round the brown painted boards which divided the living-room from the passage, and saw Hugh Morgan seated at his tea. He was well under the shadow of the large open chimney, where a bright fire burned on the stone hearth, although it was May; for here, in the face of the north-west wind, the evenings were often cold.